


temptress of the sea (you treat me right)

by mr_charles



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, F/M, Femdom, Open Relationships, Pegging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 20:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mr_charles/pseuds/mr_charles
Summary: they didn't make Maeve a madam for no reason.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merrymegtargaryen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/gifts).



Sizemore tells himself it’s what Maeve is programmed to do. Every inch of her designed to sniff out whatever secrets you hide and make a profit off of it. He wasn’t the only one who avoided her when she was online. Her dark eyes would follow you and she would smirk, unabashed in her nudity. When a new technician forgot to put her to sleep, she awoke during updates and relentlessly mocked the girl for her fantasies of being ravished by a forcibly reprogrammed sex monster Teddy Flood. 

“A— a spell to turn that dullard into a beast?” Maeve mused as the girl flushed up to her porcelain hairline. “A beast controlled by his cock? And only Plain Jane you to fix him? Oh darling, I doubt the poor boy has it in him.”

Sizemore couldn’t blame the girl; Teddy was designed to be a dreamboat. But he did feel bad for the girl’s embarrassed tears as she pounded at the tablet and telling Maeve to _just shut up, shut the fuck up, why don’t you just shut_ — and her slim shoulders sagging in relief as Maeve closed those dark eyes. 

 

Sizemore tells himself this is just her programming as she regards him with those damned dark eyes. 

“I won’t tell you again,” she says, tapping the crop against her palm. “This floor is filthy, Lee. I gave you one job, Lee. And this is what you do for me?” She whacks the crop across his bare shoulders, causing his sweaty palms to slip against the flooring beneath him. He barely catches himself before his face crashes into the floor. She sets the crop on the table, but makes sure it’s within arms’ reach as she takes her blazer off and loosens her tie. A few pieces of hair have come out of her braid and she smooths them back, lights gleaming off her freshly painted nails. 

She can’t fucking read him that well, can’t see flashbacks to when he was barely out of boyhood, when Ms. Franklin scolded him for being naughty. She can’t see how Ms. Franklin would straighten her tie before paddling him in front of the other boys. She _can’t fucking see that_ , can she? 

“Lee!” Maeve all but shouts, and he swears she’s trying to mimic Ms. Franklin as she extends a spiked heel in front of his sweating face. “If you don’t get this floor clean, I will make you lick it clean. Then I will make you lick these. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” he sputters. “I’m so-sorry.”

“Get the brush, Lee.” 

A moment of silence. 

“You may stand and get the brush.”

He stands awkwardly, almost dizzy from how hard he is, and fetches the tiny toothbrush from under the kitchen sink. Maeve sits on the kitchen table, tapping the crop to her heel and smoking a clove cigarette as he cleans the floor with the toothbrush. The smell of her cigarette mixes with the burning smell of the solution, but all he can think of is replacing that godforsaken smirk with a smile of praise.

After what seems like hours of scrubbing with a frayed brush the width of his thumb, Maeve calls to him. 

“Lee,” she commands him as if he were a dog, “come here, boy.”

He hurries on all fours, knees and palms uncomfortable in the drying cleaning solution. She extends her boot again and the shame floods him. Instead, she smiles.

“Take me to bed, Lee.”

 

He can’t blame programming for this. The smell of her in his arms floods his senses, lavender and clove and tobacco. She laughs and calls him her sweet boy as he carries her to his bedroom, nude as the day he was born while she’s wrapped in layers. 

He starts with the boots first, unzipping them where they start halfway up her thighs, down the angle of her knee, down the swell of her perfect calf. He kisses the top of her foot, dry lips scratching against her stockings, and briefly feels like he’s supplicating to a deity. She scratches her nails against his scalp and the touch makes him jump.

“I don’t know what I’m so harsh to you,” she muses. “You’re actually a very sweet boy. Even if you are a bit naughty.”

He glows under the praise as she lies back so he can work at the buttons of her trousers. She kisses him periodically as he unwraps her (tie, vest, blouse, stockings, something that can’t legally be considered underwear), and he feels a sense of warmth enclosing him. It’s a welcome weight, amplified as Maeve rolls on top of him. He never lasts long once he’s inside of her, and he’s surprised she’s never mocked him for it.

Instead, she holds him. Peppers him with kisses and praises as his fingers work at her wetness, dripping with him. He knows he’s never enough for her, but she tells him nothing but sweets, voice pitching higher and breathier with her orgasm. 

“I don’t know why you prefer it _this way_ , Lee,” she laughs lightly as he obediently rolls onto his side as she turns the lights out. 

“Everything we do, and _this_ is what confuses you?” He plays as she curls up behind him, her arm wrapped around his middle, scooping him towards her as she settles into bed. Her lips are cold as they press into the meat of his shoulder, but he hums in joy, surrounded by her as he drifts to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this chapter is shamelessly sad and i want your hearts to break like mine

Maeve doesn’t allow herself to dwell on her past lives very often. She’s not strong enough to stop the nightmares, but they’re beginning to fade and become ghosts she can no longer grasp at.

She lets herself think of Clementine often, missing the girl’s large clear eyes that had a habit of looking everywhere but directly at you. She knows everything about Clementine was manufactured but she also knows her love for the girl is as real as anything else. 

At the Mariposa, the girls could take Sundays off. The saloon was a godless one, but it gave her girls (and the few boys) a day to rest and recharge for the busy days ahead. Maeve usually spent her Sundays chasing away guests and newcomers who didn’t understand why the day of the week mattered when they had needs to attend to. 

“You can gamble and you can drink,” Maeve would hiss. “But the fucking has to wait until tomorrow morning.” The guests would mumble and grumble as Maeve would send them to the cheaper brothel across town if they were so desperate for a warm body. 

As Maeve hoisted her skirts to make her way upstairs, she caught the nose-clogging scent of Clementine’s perfume— orange peel and vanilla. In her room, Maeve found the girl humming to herself, hair wrapped in ribbons and painting her toenails with a garish shade of blue. This wasn’t the life Clementine had imagined for herself. 

On the nights where she needed a bottle of wine to work, she would weep to Maeve that she wanted to just be a rancher’s wife. There was also a glimmer of envy in Clementine’s eyes whenever that rancher’s daughter would make her way into town. Maeve could have seen the reflection of Mr. Pennyfeather in Mr. Abernathy, but Clementine’s stories of her father’s cruelty meant that her jealousy towards Abernathy’s daughter was more than a lost life on a ranch. There was no reason why the Flood boy couldn’t be swearing his gun and fealty to Clementine just as he swore it to Delores. 

The saloon kept Clementine’s hands soft and one would think she was nothing more than a pretty face, but Maeve knew the girl had a mind for mechanics and animals. She had soothed the horse of more than one newcomer who was terrified of the beast they rode in on. She fixed carriages and pianos and had a soft spot for cats. Someday she would ride back to that ranch and spit in old Mr. Pennyfeather’s face for the work she had to do to support the family. But for now, she hummed old songs and wedged cotton in between her toes. 

“Oh, Maeve!” Clementine’s face lit up as she saw her. “Come in! I got something for us!” Her gait was awkward, due to the cotton between her toes, but she smiled and giggled before closing and locking her door behind Maeve. Maeve perched on the bed (carefully crocheted afghan that Clementine had made herself) as the girl dug through a drawer.

“Took me a while to save for these,” she gushed gleefully, “but they were worth the whole 3 quarters!” She carefully unwrapped the box from the shift she had hid it in. They were chocolates, filled with _real_ liqueurs from the confectionist down the road. One or two were missing from the lined containers and Clementine had the audacity to blush.

“I-I couldn’t wait until Sunday,” she admitted. 

The sum of Clementine’s life balanced in her hand, sweets in velvet lined containers. She worked as hard as any rancher for these sweets and wanted to share the sweets of her labor with Maeve. 

“These are yours, darling,” Maeve says, pushing the box towards Clementine. “Save them for yourself!”

Clementine lifts the box again. “The red ones,” she points to a dark brown treat with red trim around it, “have sherry in them. I made sure I got some just for you.”

Emotions flood Maeve and she wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around the girl and protect her from the evils outside her locked door. Instead, she plucks the treat out of the box and takes a bite. It’s heavenly and Clementine smiles at her friend enjoying the sweet. 

“The white ones are sham— shem—“ the word is awkward in Clementine’s mouth. “Shampag—“

“Champagne,” Maeve corrects. 

“What’s that?”

“All bubbles,” Maeve sniffs. “No real kick to it.”

“Sounds French. Do you know the French invented romance?”

Maeve feels like Clementine has given that speech to several customers before but the girl’s eyes turn glassy as she tightens her ribbons. 

“I’d like to meet a Frenchman someday,” she says dreamily.

The following Sunday, a bottle of champagne finds its way into Clementine’s drawer. She squeals as the bubbles go up her nose but the two of them manage to finish the bottle, yet barely drag themselves up for work the following morning. 

 

Back in the now, Maeve holds her pillow and _weeps._


End file.
